


a moment of peace

by epsiloneridani



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, brief mention of alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24031126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epsiloneridani/pseuds/epsiloneridani
Summary: Wolffe's back on Corcuscant. Fox needs to take a break.The war is long and peace is fleeting."It’s time for a drink, you and me."
Relationships: CC-1010 | Fox & CC-3636 | Wolffe, No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 183





	a moment of peace

“You really need to get out more.”

The office is small and cramped. Wolffe imagines it wasn’t meant to be a workspace, since it’s shaped more like a storage closet. Fox’s desk is just two crates with a sheet of durasteel set atop them.

“Did Thire let you in here?” Fox asks without looking up from his datapad. His stylus flies along: scribble, tap, swipe, repeat.

“Jek,” Wolffe says, and eases down onto the only other chair in the room. The wall is suffocatingly close. He rolls his shoulders uncomfortably. “Why don’t you just go back to your quarters? You have a desk.”

“I don’t have time to go back to the base,” Fox says.

“Yeah, your signature is very time-consuming,” Wolffe surmises. “Three letters. That’s a real challenge.”

“Do you have any idea how many kidnapping attempts I have to deal with every week?”

Dooku would pay a fortune to have a Republic senator in his custody – probably more if it’s someone like Chuchi or Amidala or Organa. “I can’t say I know the number off the top of my head.”

Fox must not either. He blows out a breath. The stylus slows and stops. He sets the datapad down and folds his hands on the desk, leaning forward to meet Wolffe’s eyes. “Look,” he says. “I’m leading a patrol in the lower levels tomorrow morning. There are no Senators in the building right now. This is the only time I have to get this done.”

“The 104th is deploying in the morning,” Wolffe says. It’s a low blow and he knows it. “This is the only time I have to see you, _vod_.”

Fox scowls, then drops his head to his hands and scrubs at his eyes. “That’s not fair.”

“War’s not fair.”

"You don’t have to tell me that,” Fox grumbles.

Wolffe reaches over and ruffles his hair. It’s back to its natural rusty red. “You stopped dyeing your hair.”

“Not worth the trouble,” Fox says, muffled. “I barely take my helmet off anyway.”

He doesn’t ask why Fox started dyeing it in the first place; he already knows: anonymity. Wolffe flicks him in the head. Fox bats at his hand. “Hey,” Wolffe says. “Remember when you got your name?”

“No,” Fox says dryly, lifting his head and slumping forward so he can prop his chin on his arms. “Of course I remember when I got my name, Wolffe.”

Wolffe flashes a grin. It was supposed to be a training exercise for the command class: whoever could evade Jango for the longest would be declared _parjii_ – the victor. The catch, however, was that only they knew they were playing the game. The Kaminoans had no clue, which meant the command class had to go about their business with one eye on their studies and one on the lookout for Jango. If he tapped you on the shoulder, you were done. In theory, it sounded easy: Jango was only around on certain days of the week for certain segments of their training.

In practice, it was much harder.

Somehow, Fox managed to complete all of his assignments, participate in every exercise, and never set foot in Jango’s line of sight. Where he went and how he knew when to go there, none of them had ever known. Gree had even asked.

 _You’re like a fox_ , Jango had said, when he called an end to it and Fox was the only one left standing. _Clever and cunning. The hair doesn’t hurt, either_.

“You never told me,” Wolffe says.

Fox blinks at him slowly. “I never told you what?”

“How you did it,” Wolffe says, leaning back and crossing his arms. The chair creaks ominously; he sits back up. “How you knew where Jango was going to be.”

A sly smile quirks the corners of Fox’s mouth. “I put a tracker on him,” he says.

“Where?”

“His knife,” Fox shrugs. “He always had it on him. Find the knife, find Jango.”

“He never said that was allowed.”

“He never said it wasn’t.”

Wolffe shakes his head. “Where did you even get a tracker on Kamino?”

Fox makes an innocent face.

“You didn’t steal it.”

“No,” Fox says. “Not exactly.”

“Fox.”

“I talked my way into it,” Fox says. “That’s all.”

“ _Paklalat_ ,” Wolffe sighs. The gift of gab: he imagines having a silver tongue comes in handy around the Senate. “That must be nice.”

“Maybe,” Fox says. His eyes sparkle with mischief. “Cody just calls it being a _mir’sheb_.”

“You’re that, too.”

“So are you.”

Wolffe makes a dismissive noise and holds his arms out to his sides. In the cramped quarters, they don’t extend very far. “So,” he says. “About those signatures.”

Fox blows out a breath. The happy gleam fades from his eyes; Wolffe almost regrets mentioning it. “The signatures,” Fox echoes glumly, and picks up his datapad again.

“How many do you have left?”

“Fifty-seven.”

Wolffe’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Don’t ask,” Fox sighs. “The Chancellor doesn’t want to do his own _shabla_ paperwork so Mas Amedda makes me do it.”

“Do you even have the authorization to do that?”

“‘I’ve been ‘granted special administrative permissions.’” Fox makes a disgusted noise. The stylus is flying along again.

“Are you even reading those?”

“Yes.”

“That’s kinda fast to be reading them, Fox.”

“I’m reading them.”

“Are you?”

“They’re all room requisition requests for meetings the Chancellor has in the next few weeks,” Fox says, annoyed. “I’ve seen hundreds of them in the last two days alone.”

“Doesn’t he have staff for this?”

“Yeah,” Fox growls. “Apparently, me.”

Trained as an ARC trooper and stuck acting as a part-time office assistant; no wonder the rumor mill says Fox is cranky all of the time. “I’ll wait,” Wolffe says.

“I have something else to attend to when this is done,” Fox says coolly.

“Oh, more ‘room requisition requests?’”

“No,” Fox says. “Cremations.”

Wolffe’s heart twists. “I’m sorry.”

“There was a prison break. It’s an operational hazard,” Fox says briskly. “You know that.”

“General Plo at least says a few words for us.”

“I say the words,” Fox says. “Then the techs send them off. That’s it.”

Wolffe reaches across the desk and grasps his wrist. Fox stops scribbling. “I’ll go with you,” Wolffe says. “You don’t have to do that alone.”

Fox stares at him for a long beat. “Okay,” he says. His voice is small. “Okay.”

The trip to the facility isn’t a long one. Fox places his palm on one of the coffins and takes a careful breath. Wolffe sets a hand on his shoulder.

“ _Nu_ _kyr’adyc, shi taab’echaaj’la_ ,” Fox says, and steps back. The tech hits the release.

Then they’re gone.

The night is cool. They’re in fatigues, not armor. Fox shivers.

“I think,” Wolffe says, “it’s time for a drink. You and me.”

Fox nods numbly.

“Fox?”

“Yeah,” Fox says, and clears his throat. In the dim glow of the Coruscant night, Wolffe can just barely make out the sheen in his eyes.

“Come here,” Wolffe says. Fox lets him tug him close. Wolffe settles his arms around him and squeezes tightly. “Let’s go have a drink, huh?”

Fox takes a shuddery breath. “I’m gonna miss you,” he says, muffled against Wolffe’s shoulder.

“I’ll be back.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’m here now,” Wolffe says. “That’s what matters.”

It takes Fox a long moment to let go. Wolffe takes hold of his face and gently knocks their foreheads together. “I’m here now, _vod_ ,” he says again. “Come on. I’ve got some stories for you.”

It earns him a smile. “Whose stories?” Fox asks, and pulls away. Wolffe keeps an arm around his shoulders. “Not Cody’s?”

“No. Rex’s.” Wolffe tilts his head at him. “What’s wrong with Cody’s stories?”

“Nothing,” Fox says. “I just want to know how many droids he thinks he can headbutt before he’s too concussed to be a Marshal Commander.”

It’s freeing to laugh. The tension in Wolffe’s chest eases. There’s some light back in Fox’s eyes.

“Drinks,” Fox reminds, and Wolffe smiles.

\--


End file.
